Eating Broccoli with a Straw

Roger and I were asked to speak at small country church on a Sunday morning, something we were occasionally asked to do by churches in western Kentucky or northwest Tennessee where we practiced as Marriage and Family Therapists.

Covering topics related to building strong families, one of us would speak during the Sunday School hour and the other during worship.

While we were happy to share what we’d learned in school and in practice, these excursions cost us time, effort, and gas money. Sometimes churches would pay us an honorarium and sometimes they didn’t.

B.B. James, an old-timey preacher who has long since passed, told me he held a revival for a church and when the week-long event ended, one of the church elders came to him and said, “This has been a lean year for farmers in the area, so we’re not able to give you any money, but I do have something in the car I want to give you.”

B.B. followed him to the car where the man reached inside the back seat and pulled out a bulging pillowcase.

“This here is one of my country hams. I hope you enjoy it.”

Even though he was gracious, B.B. was a bit dumbfounded. When he thanked the man, the man said, “That’s not all.”

Reaching back inside his car, the man extracted another pillowcase, but this was held something that was alive and writhing.

“Here’s a litter of kittens that have just been weaned,” the man explained. “I thought your children would enjoy them.”

Every year after that, when B.B. was planning his summer itinerary of speaking engagements, his kids would say, “Can you go back to that church where you got the kittens? We want some more.”

Roger and I had learned there was something we called “the secret handshake” among churches. As we would shake hands with the church members, there would be one man who shook our hand with a check cradled in his palm. Crinkling the check while shaking our hand, the man would say, “Thank you for coming. This here’s a little something for your trouble.”

Sometimes, “little” was literal.

A preacher told me he went to a church to preach in 1932 and was paid with a check for $1.25. The check bounced when he tried to cash it. Hard times is hard times, I guess.

That particular Sunday Roger and I spoke, we made certain we shook everyone’s hand, but as the last member drove away, leaving us and our families alone in the parking lot, we looked at each other and asked, “Did you get the secret handshake?”

Unfortunately, the answer that day was, “No.”

Unfazed, we decided to find a restaurant to eat lunch. The closest town we knew of was twenty miles away, so we loaded up and headed there.

On the way, I mentioned a Mexican restaurant I’d heard good things about, but when we got there, it was closed.

I looked around and spotted a restaurant attached to a small motel. You can usually tell how good a restaurant is by the number of vehicles parked around it, and this one was swarmed by cars.

When we went in, tables looked full and a throng of people was milling about like ants, moving in and out around a large buffet. Again, all promising signs of a good meal.

This was the era before you were met at the door by a hostess and escorted to a table. We stood there, surveying the situation and didn’t see a single unoccupied table.

Look for the second portion in the January 7, 2024 edition.

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume 1: I Didn’t Know Donkeys Could Laugh.